


All That I Ever Wanted

by purpleyedemon



Category: Kane (Band)
Genre: M/M, Songfic, Stupid Boys being Stupid, bad breakups, happy ending...hopefully
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-17
Updated: 2013-03-17
Packaged: 2017-12-05 15:15:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/724727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purpleyedemon/pseuds/purpleyedemon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Chris told Steve he was moving to Nashville, Steve didn't argue. He didn't fight. He just turned around and walked away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All That I Ever Wanted

**Author's Note:**

> Title and bits and pieces of story blatantly ripped from Steve Carlson's "All That I Ever Wanted"
> 
> More migrating from my LJ. This one was written about 3 years ago.

All it took was four words to completely change Steve Carlson’s life. They’d been together for so long. Almost a decade. He had started to let himself believe that they would be together forever. He knew that they were moving on, musically. They couldn’t be Kane forever. Both of them had been working on their own stuff, writing their own songs, starting to put together their own solo albums. But that didn’t mean that anything about their – whatever it was that they had – would change. Turns out he was wrong. Those four simple words…he may never get them out of his head.

 

“I’m moving to Nashville.”

 

Chris looked Steve straight in the eye and broke his heart. No fear, no compassion, no remorse, no feeling whatsoever. He could just as easily have said that he was going out to buy a loaf of bread. Steve thinks that’s the worse part. Chris didn’t even know what he was doing to him. Didn’t know or just didn’t care.

 

“I’m moving to Nashville.”

 

At that moment, it was all Steve could do to keep from crying, croak out a weak “okay”, turn around, and walk away.

 

What was the point of arguing? Anyone who had even met the man knew that once Chris set his mind on something there was no use in even trying to get him to change it. If Chris wanted to move to the other side of the fucking country, he was going to move to the other side of the fucking country. Without Steve. If Chris wanted to split up Kane, he was going to split up Kane. If he wanted to just walk out on everything Steve had ever cared about, well, he was going to just walk out. There really was no need to even try to make Chris stay. It wouldn’t work. And if it was so damn easy for him to just leave it all behind, it must not have been as important to him as Steve had let himself believe.

_Feels like I don’t even know him. Did I ever really know him? Does anyone ever know the real Christian Fucking Kane? God, I’m an idiot._

 

…

 

All that was a year ago. Chris had left for Nashville a year ago. And Steve was still in the same city that didn’t seem to make any sense without Chris there to share it with. He was still doing the same thing he’d been doing before his whole world was turned upside down. What else could he do? He’d hoped that if he just waited long enough, if he just put enough space between himself and anything that reminded him of Chris, he would be able to move on with his life. But everyone knows that just doesn’t work. He had fenced himself in. Ate, wrote, played, recorded, slept, lather, rinse, repeat. He didn’t let himself do anything else. He tried not to give himself time to even really think. If he tried to let go and have some fun with his friends or bandmates, or even just stopped for too long, Chris would force his way into Steve’s thoughts. It was almost like Chris was permanently stained on Steve’s brain or something. And nothing seemed to erase it.

 

He went to work on the album that he had barely started to write. Threw himself into it, more like. He let Jensen listen to a few of the songs he was planning on recording. Even had him help write one. It just wasn’t the same as working with Chris. The song turned out fine in the end, but the process just felt wrong. Sure, Jen was a great singer, great guitar player, even a great songwriter. But he wasn’t Chris. He didn’t need Steve to help him make fingers that had been trained for strength instead of precision and fluidity work over the guitar strings. He couldn’t read Steve’s mind for him when that word or line just wasn’t coming out right. He wasn’t someone Steve could laugh with and compliment and kiss when something finally came out just the way they both wanted it to.

 

The album was finished, and he sent one of the first printed copies to Chris. It was something they’d always done. No matter where either of them was, the second something that either of them (or both of them) had worked on was finally finished, they made damn sure that the other got to be one of the first ones to listen to the final product. He wasn’t even sure that Chris would want to hear it. Those songs were pretty fucking depressing.

 

But he had to take the chance. And if he was going to take that chance, he might as well take another.

How could it possibly make him any more miserable than he already was, anyway? So, he resolved to just get it over with and then go back to his life. He sat down, and for the first time in years, poured his heart out not into a song, but into a letter. He folded that letter up and slid it inside the jewel case that housed Chris’ future copy of Stripped Down, put the case in an envelope and the envelope in his mailbox, and promptly forgot about it. Or, at least, he tried to.

 

…

 

Chris had been living in Nashville for a year. One whole goddamn year and it still didn’t feel like home. Home was Norman, Oklahoma, in his Momma’s kitchen, with her at the stove chattering away at him about how he didn’t spend enough time  with his family. Home was Portland, Oregon, on a barstool at Dante’s, knocking back shots with Tim and Aldis while Beth danced like a crazy person to some obnoxious pop song and Gina lectured the three of them on drinking too much of the wrong kinds of liquor. Home was in Los Angeles, California, on Steve’s couch with a guitar across his lap and a pencil behind his ear, listening to whatever guitar lick Steve was suggesting for the lyrics Chris had just come up with. Home was certainly NOT motherfucking Nashville, Tennessee, on this noisy, soulless street, in this big, spacious apartment, in a kitchen empty of Momma’s cooking smells, or in a living room empty of the sounds of guitar strings and laughter, or in a bedroom empty of…whatever had always been in the bedroom when Steve was there with him.

_And fuck! What happened to not thinking about him, huh, Kane?_ Chris raged at himself within his own head. Most people thought he was just really quiet, or really contemplative, or just didn’t like talking to people. The whole tough-guy image. But really, he just tended to talk to himself. A lot. _He didn’t give a shit when you suggested this move. Didn’t give you the chance to explain that your_ label _was moving, or that you were only going to really be there a few months out of the year so that you could stay with him. He just turned around and walked the fuck away. Hasn’t called, emailed, anything. He doesn’t want you. So, move on with your life. You’re Christian Fucking Kane. You’re stronger than this. Right? Right?_

 

His thoughts were brought back to the present as he pulled open the front door of his apartment building. It was a real good thing he had to pass the mailboxes just to get to his apartment, or he’d never remember to check his. He pulled the mail out of the mailbox assigned to him, and wandered up the stairs towards his front door.   _Half of these are probably from Sony tryin’ to clear up all that shit and remind me that I can’t use any of my own damn songs again._ He dropped everything but the mail just inside the front door, grabbed a beer from the fridge, and sat down on the couch. Flicking through the pile of envelopes in his hand, his eyes landed on a return address that almost made him stop breathing. _Steve?_ Almost on auto-pilot, he dropped the rest of the mail on the coffee table and slumped back against the couch.  He opened up the bulky envelope to find a standard jewel case with a CD and some kind of note inside. _What the…_ As quickly as his clumsier-than-usual hands would let him, he unfolded the paper and started to read.

_Chris,_

_I don’t even know if you’re gonna want to listen to this album, let alone read what I have to say. But I have to try. A year ago, when you told me that you were leaving, I just accepted it and walked away. There was so much that I wanted to say. So much that I should have said. But I just didn’t.  I guess I figured that it if it was so easy for you to walk away, I needed to, too. I hated myself for doing it. I still hate myself for not fighting._

_I’ve spent the last year sitting here just trying to forget you. I can’t do it. I can’t get you out of my head. It took me longer than it should have, but I’m finally willing to accept it: you’re all that I’ve ever wanted. Whatever it was that I’d spent most of my life looking for, I found it in you. Just thinking about how much I need you breaks me down every once in a while. But there’s one thing I’m absolutely positive of. I still love you._

_So, there. This is me making an idiot of myself, saying everything I can say. This is me fighting.  I should have said all this a year ago, but, well, I always was a little slow on the uptake, wasn’t I? I don’t know if this will make a difference, but it’s all I can do._

_I’ll always love you._

_Steve_

_P.S. Just in case you need more, check out Track 8._

 

Chris read the letter once, completely confused. The second time he read through it, he was just shocked. The third time he couldn’t help it; he started crying. By the fifth or sixth read-through he had stopped the flow of tears, but that empty, not-home feeling had doubled in size and settled down to make a home for itself in his chest.

_Goddammit. He…I gotta…Fuck._ Chris took a deep breath, stood up, downed the rest of his beer in one long drag, stalked into his office-cum-music-room, and sat down at the computer to buy a ticket for the first plane to LA. _I gotta fix this._


End file.
